


i see you / you see me

by warmh0ney



Category: Draco Malfoy - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Death Eaters, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone is evil, F/M, Gryffindor, Hogwarts, Romance, Slytherin, Slytherin/Gryffindor, Smut, Toxic Relationship, Violence, good is boring anyway, toxic draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmh0ney/pseuds/warmh0ney
Summary: I didn't know what love was until Draco Malfoy. He taught me everything there is to know about love, you see. He taught me that love is painful, unpleasant. Love is a wretched thing, he said. Love is ugly, love should hurt.And I know what you're thinking, that it sounds nothing like love. That if he sees love that way, then I probably shouldn't have given him my heart. But as I stared into his cruel, silver eyes, with the world falling apart around us, I realised maybe I didn't mind pain after all.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/OC, Draco Malfoy/You, Harry Potter/OC, Theodore Nott/OC
Kudos: 10





	1. -

**Warning** : This book is intended for adults and contains violence (physical and verbal), character deaths, drug abuse, and non-consensual sex.  
Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1005115375-i-see-you-you-see-me  
  


_Main Characters_

**Hayden Blackwood**

Gryffindor

Ash wood with a Dragon heartstring core, 13" and hard flexibility  
  
  
  


**Draco Lucius Malfoy**

Slytherin

Hawthorn wood with a Unicorn hair core, 10" and reasonably springy  
  
  
  


**Harry James Potter**

Gryffindor

Holly wood with a Phoenix feather core, 11" and supple  
  
  


**Theodore Nott**

Slytherin

Ash wood with a Kelpie hair core, 12" and pliable


	2. hayden

**_Hayden_ **

Do you remember that one Muggle story I told you?

Once, there was a girl, beautiful and brave, sitting by a riverbank on a summer day. She was getting tired of having nothing to do when suddenly, a white rabbit with pink eyes in a waistcoat ran by.

'Oh dear, oh dear! I shall be late!' the rabbit says to itself, pulls a watch out of its pocket, then jumps into a rabbit-hole.

Now, the girl wasn't just beautiful and brave. She was quite foolish, too. Because in another moment down she went after it, never once considering how in the hell she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel, and it was either very deep or she was just falling very slowly, for the girl had plenty of time to wonder what was going to happen next.

She falls to a place where rules and possibilities are far different than her own. She eats a lot of weird crap that grows and shrinks her, meets a lot of absurd characters, and even gets sentenced to a beheading.

Honestly, I don't remember the details but the point is, the girl did a lot of foolish things— which isn't surprising at all because she was just a child, struggling to survive in some bizarre world. She also struggled with her identity, having been constantly ordered to identify herself by the creatures she meets and having her sanity questioned by a cat.

Eventually, though, she learns to cope with the crazy rules. She gets better at managing situations, she becomes sure of herself. Then she realises that the creatures are nothing but a pack of cards, and at that point, she has matured too much to stay in that world and wakes up into the real one.

I've been thinking about that story a lot recently.

It's the kind of story you hate. Confusing, illogical, with an anticlimactic ending no less. You would say the girl is stupid, even though she'd learned so much on her own. I don't think it's stupidity at all, I think it's bravery.

Nevertheless, I'd bet you'd still hate her. Perhaps you'll hate her more than you hate me, perhaps not.

That's our problem, the long and the short of it. I'm in a place where rules and possibilities are different than my own, and you've seen it all. I don't know who I am, and you've already got everything figured out. People need time to learn, you see. To grow. Not you, though. And that's why it's always so hard to make you understand.

But I am. Asking. I mean, I've already asked and you never understood. But I am going to ask you again anyway, and I will never stop.

In the meantime, let me tell you another story.

In Harlow, there lived a seemingly ordinary family in a small townhouse. There was a mother, a father, and their baby. The father worked for the ministry, while the mother stayed at home and took care of their daughter. Everything was fine. Everything was normal.

It almost sounds boring, doesn't it?

But the thing is, the father talked of many things, impossible things. He liked to talk about anything and everything. Except for himself. His life was too complicated to narrate, he'd say. Complicated like his 'brother' was traveling around the world, searching for the darkest magic there was. Complicated like he was under an Unbreakable Vow. Complicated like he used to murder people like his wife and his daughter.

But when Halton Blackwood's past caught up with him, he didn't even have to live through the worst of the consequences. He murdered a good many more people like his wife and his daughter. Got caught and sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban. Left his family behind in the real hell. Took my mother's memories so she couldn't even hate him.

But I do. I hate him with all that I am, and I don't even have memories of him in the first place.

I hate you more, though. Never forget that I will always hate you the most.

Hatred was no illusion to me then, no simple spell. It was a full-on curse and I keep shoving it down my throat. I was willing to make every stupid choice in the world just so I could satisfy that hunger.

But I am learning, and I am growing. So I'm asking you to please understand, even if you don't. Because you have to. Because I need you to.

Because

Because, Draco, you're the only one who can.

We're stuck with each other, no matter how hard we try to escape. There will be no salvation for us.

Eternal misery.

What could be more perfect for two wretched people such as you and I?

It wasn't always like this, though. Do you remember? There was a time when we had been truly happy. When the world wasn't so cruel, and you and I weren't so broken.

So let's go back, shall we? Before all the mistakes and the curses and the death and the heartbreaks. Let's go back to that time I jumped into the rabbit-hole. Let's go back to where it all began.


	3. before

**_Before_ **

Many times in her childhood years, Hayden Blackwood laid under the black ash tree by her neighbor's lawn, waiting for a white rabbit with pink eyes in a waistcoat to run by. There was no river nearby, and no other places a rabbit might be, but the tree was better than nothing.

It was warm there, too, and they always gave her the strangest sweets. Once, they gave her chocolate in the shape of a frog. Hayden swore she heard it croak. They were also the only family in the neighborhood that don't turn their noses when she walks by, which Hayden appreciates.

A day before her birthday, she was laying under that very same tree, looking up at the birds, wondering what it felt like to fly, listening to the rustling of leaves, of the wind and the insects when someone ran by— not a rabbit, but a girl who looked well enough like one.

"Hey, nutter," the girl yelled in her high-pitched voice. She was sitting on her pink, sparkly bike, one foot on the pedal and one on the ground, leaning over the fence to peer at her. "Why'd you drop out? Is it because you ran out of money again or have you decided to follow your father's footsteps?"

Hayden blinked up from the grass. "Leave me alone," she told her as dully as she could.

That only made the girl laugh. "My mum said your criminal father's a monster and your mother's sick in the head, making stuff up about him. That makes you a sick monster, she said."

Hayden didn't reply. Instead, she pressed her cheek on the ground, her black hair tumbling over her face like spilled ink. She'd heard that a lot of times already. And though she shouldn't, sometimes she thinks they were telling the truth.

"Tell her to make up a better name than You-Know-Who, will you?" She sniggered before pedaling away.

She watched the girl bike in circles through the gaps between the fences, eventually joined by her friends, doubtless making fun of her. Hayden reached for a rock, small enough to fly far but large enough to hurt. She threw it in the air and caught it again.

Threw it in the air and caught it again. Up and down. Up and down.

Her neighbor, Mrs. Tonks, eyed her, obviously waiting to intervene in case the child decides to throw it. "Den-den," she called, "just because your father wasn't particularly kind to people, doesn't mean you should be, too. You're a sweet little child."

"What makes you say so sure?" Hayden asked, still tossing and catching the rock. "I'm considering throwing this at them, you know."

"That's good, then, that you're just considering it," Mrs. Tonks said, her voice firm but gentle. She's always gentle, always understanding.

"I'm considering doing many other, even worse, things, too."

Surprisingly, Mrs. Tonks only laughed at that. "Do you, now? Come here, Hayden."

She didn't. She stood up, though. "Don't worry, I won't do it. Her father's a cop, and I don't want to go to Azkaban."

Mrs. Tonks' brows rose, then smiled down at her with no small amount of amusement. The child obviously didn't know what Azkaban was, only that it was a place where bad people go. She wasn't wrong about that.

"You remind me of my nephew," she mused aloud. "You're very much like him. Clever and witty. He's almost as stubborn as you are. Almost."

"You have a nephew? How come I've only seen Nymphadora?"

"Their family... lives far away—" Hayden noticed the gleam in her eyes disappear. "—but perhaps you'll meet him someday. You could consider throwing rocks at people and decide together that you'll find no amusement in hurting people."

Hayden had been alone most of her life, an odd thing to be avoided by kids her age and warned about by their parents. No one liked her, no one understood her. No one was _like_ her, and she told herself she did not care. And if sometimes she thought about what she might do to fit in, what she might do to feel something other than a freak, she kept that to herself.

She'd certainly never heard about this nephew who was very much like her, and yet she found it nice to think that somewhere out there, someone might be feeling the emotions she had. No matter how sullen, no matter how profound.

No matter how cruel. Hayden kept that to herself, too.

Mrs. Tonks breathed out softly and began speaking again. "There's a whole world out there, Den-den. It is much bigger than this, much scarier, but I promise, you will find your place there."

Hayden rested her head against the tree, feeling its roughness against her skin, as she listened, looking over at the woman. Mrs. Tonks seemed illusory from that angle, as though if she squinted hard enough, she might be able to see through her.

Mrs. Tonks went on. "It will be especially tough for you, but you're a tough girl, aren't you? Remember, Hayden, that you always have a choice. You need not follow the path other people expect you to."

Hayden let out a slow breath, frowning. "I don't understand, Mrs. Tonks."

"Not now," she merely replied. "Soon, you will."

The promise of something more made her look down at her hand, at the rock she was gripping so tightly. She wanted that. She wanted more. She wanted to feel tough, and she wasn't afraid of a world much bigger than this.

If she could have that, then this rock meant nothing. Hayden opened her palms and let it fall to the ground.

Mrs. Tonks smiled at her and pulled her into a hug. And although she didn't want to, Hayden lifted her arms and wrapped them around the woman as well.

The sun was almost setting when Hayden decided she was hungry and wanted a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. She kept her head low and jaw set as she passed by the bullies on her way home. Their laughter was so loud it sounded like shattering glass.

So loud Hayden thought the promise of something more wasn't coming fast enough. She stopped dead on her tracks and faced the group. _Protego Diabolica,_ she thought, even though the words didn't make any sense. A shimmering black flame exploded from her and shot toward them, singeing their skins.

Hayden quickly turned her back on them and started walking, fast, blue-green eyes wide as the sounds of laughter got replaced by wailing screams. She remained silent, though. Whether in terror or fascination, she couldn't be sure.

Years later, when Hayden told herself the story of what happened, she couldn't quite recall the part where she got home. Couldn't quite recall if she did have that peanut butter sandwich. Shock seemed to erase that day entirely. Or maybe Hayden had imagined everything. She never did know for certain.

Though it was by no means a foolish thought that, in a future self, she might look upon today as anything but a hallucination.

Because unbeknownst to her then, a peculiar owl was flying overhead, with an envelope personally addressed to her clasped on its beak.


	4. one

**_Chapter One_ **

_One year later._

Hayden Blackwood stalked down the streets of Diagon Alley, wand clutched in her hand, poking every so often into her thighs.

The place was an explosion of activity, even with the scorching heat of the sun, and yet she'd indeed brave the walk from the Leaky Cauldron, wanting to breathe in and savour the magic after months of staying in the Muggle world.

Wizards and witches poured in and out of various shops, some flew overhead rushing to places they needed to be, some meandered through the crowd looking through the display windows, some— no doubt performers— shot colorful, flashy spells in the air.

Barely dodging one such person in the middle of the alley— a witch clad in feathered robes and skin painted with glittering powder— she zigged and zagged her way to Flourish & Blotts' entrance, its glass window topped up with Gilderoy Lockhart's face.

The bookshop was packed with at least three dozen witches crowding around the front where the famous wizard celebrity was currently holding a book signing event. Paper airplanes hovered above them, quills scratching on parchments at impossible speed, magic _everywhere_. Too surreal for her eyes to drink in, and yet she could not look away. _I'll never get tired of this_ , Hayden thought— _the absurdity, the spectacle, the sublimity._

Ron Weasley waved his arms in the air, trying to catch her attention, and she hurried along toward him. "Finally," he said. "Harry was about to rootle around the Alley to find you."

Hayden kept her face neutral at the mention of his name even as her eyes scanned the crowd. For all the expression she showed, the boy might as well have been a stranger. But there was nothing odd about that, there shouldn't be. There shouldn't be any reason at all why she would want to see him. Now. At this very second.

Before she could open her mouth, several cameras clicked and flashed at once, brightening the room. Hayden scrunched her nose in annoyance. "Do you reckon _any_ of it's real?" she asked him.

Ron mirrored her expression. "Of course not," he scoffed. "He's ridiculous. Just look at him."

She did. If she stood on her toes, she could almost spot his garish cloak and perfectly styled golden hair. Hayden had never liked the ostentatious wizard, even with his legendary tales. He reminds her of someone else. Someone who, very much like him, commanded attention. And was just as pompous, too.

Hermione Granger paused beside them, the _Traveling with Trolls_ book clutched closely in her arms, probably considering smacking them with it. "He is not! Lockhart's brilliant. You would say the same if only you'd pick up a book."

"Whatever you say," Ron grumbled, and rolled his eyes. "You know whose book I'd actually consider reading? Hayden and Harry's. I'd bet all my savings the bloke hasn't even seen He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Hayden gave him a tight-lipped smile, though her throat tightened. It was an effort not to flinch, not to close her eyes and block out the memory. Not to hear the screechy voice or picture the snake-like face, chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils.

Many nights she'd drifted off to sleep, only to fall back into that nightmare. She didn't want to pretend that what happened was anything other than terrifying, but she does. Because despite herself, despite the terror this strange world has brought upon her life, she was still thankful to wake up here at all— with magic thrumming in her veins.

If she didn't pretend, she'd probably hide under her blanket in her room in the Muggle world. She would hide there and waste away until she turns to dust.

"Funny, isn't it?" Hayden whispered conspiratorially. "We've been sitting in the same room with the Dark Lord all year and we had absolutely no idea."

"Funnier that you have his right hand's last name." Ron sniggered. "Talk about dumb luck."

Funnier, indeed. The irony that it was Lord Voldemort's right hand who dared dally with a Muggle was what made it all the more hilarious. Ron didn't know that, though. No one did. Not even the Dark Lord himself.

"Blackwood," Hermione whispered, her tone almost reverent.

Hayden clenched her wand so tightly her fingers ached. She shoved the anger down, down, down, until there was no possibility of them reading it on her face. It was impossible to miss that name, no matter how hard the wizardkind tried to shun it. Books were written about him, scholars still romanticised his intellect, and even at Hogwarts, they would use some of the theories he developed.

Halton Blackwood had invented a lot of spells and new magic that, for better or for worse, changed the wizarding world. He was respected here, worshipped even.

That was, of course, before he allied his talents with Lord Voldemort's schemes. _Then_ , they could only watch in terror as he unleashed his power upon them all.

She mostly didn't like to think of him. She hated him. She hated him more because all things horrible that have happened in her life was because of him, and yet if it weren't for Halton, she would've never seen this world. This world that she loves so much.

There's a cost for it, however, like all good things. Her neighbor Andromeda Tonks— who turned out to be a witch and was looking over her as a favour to Halton— told her that it would be best to keep her background a secret lest she be hunted down. There were still a lot of people who demanded retribution, she said, and what better way to do that than to torture his only successor.

So then, she pretends. It was especially easy to pretend when everyone else was already so determined to deny the possibility of it. If Halton Blackwood did have a child, they would be clever and cunning. They would be the promise of brilliance, a prodigy.

They would be _anything_ but an irresponsible, ill-fated Gryffindor.

Hayden looked away but forced a corner of her mouth to twitch upward, to make her eyes glitter with amusement. "If I have dumb luck, what does Harry have?"

"A front page of the Daily Prophet," Harry grumbled, stepping beside her. When he looked at Hayden, he paused for a moment, reached over, and brushed a strand of inky black hair off her face. "What took you so long? You didn't get lost again, did you?"

Harry Potter had that boyish, casual charm, one she hadn't noticed immediately when they first met, here, in Diagon Alley last year. But magic looked good on him, and she was fairly certain half of Hogwarts wouldn't mind kissing him. Herself included.

Hayden sighed, pretending a spike of thrill hadn't just shot through her at his unexpected gesture. "It's so troublesome to be around the boy who lived, you see," she said. "I had to stall as long as I could."

Harry's lips curled into a smile, eyes gleaming with mischievous intent. "True, but you're trouble yourself. I can't help—"

"Famous Harry Potter," drawled a voice she had no trouble recognizing, "can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."

She scowled involuntarily, dread coiling in her belly. She should've seen it coming.

Draco Malfoy, clever and cunning as Slytherins come, yet still the absolute worst, smiled— heartbreaking in its beauty— as we turned around. His dress shirt and suit were both black, the stark absence of color emphasising his hair, which was the precise color of fresh snow. Standing there with his hands shoved casually into his pants' pockets, the sight of him was like running smack into Platform 9.

It was a shame, really, that such striking looks were wasted on a rotten human being.

Hayden had begged Merlin, making all sorts of promises if he'd spare them from the devil this year. But no, Draco Malfoy liked to make a spectacle of everything and found pissing them off to be an art form. And though she hated it, she turned her gaze to the ground and gritted her teeth.

She both knew and didn't know why he hated them so much. For one, a lot of his enmity toward them stemmed from his envy of Harry. She was almost certain that, if given the chance, Malfoy would want the Dark Lord to try and murder _him,_ just to have a bite of everything Harry's got.

For another, he loves cruelty and hates Muggles. _That_ part, she didn't get. Though she supposed it shouldn't be too hard to understand. Her father felt exactly the same, after all.

"I wonder," he went on, "what does it feel like to be famous for being an orphan?"

Hayden's hands fisted at her side, brushing against the wand she'd strapped to her hip. _She_ wondered, what would it feel like if she hexed him in a bookshop?

"Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?" she snapped before she could think of it.

Draco Malfoy didn't even seem to notice her until he did.

He clicked his tongue, no longer smiling, as his gaze came to rest on her. He looked at her with so much repulsion like he thinks her blood would sully his. Like she had no right to be here. "Who said you could talk to me? What is the opinion of a _mudblood_ worth?"

Hayden's irritation curdled into shame, and at that moment, she felt a lot like that girl who jumped into a rabbit-hole. Ever since she received the letter, ever since she got lost in a dark alley, ever since she had to lie about who she was, she kept falling down and down and down and down.

Would the fall never come to an end?

"Yeah," Malfoy scoffed when she didn't answer, "I thought so."

"Leave us alone, Malfoy," Harry said suddenly, his voice deathly sharp. "D'you think we give a crap about what _you_ say?"

Malfoy looked between them, then laughed a cruel, twisted laugh. "As always, Potter, you never fail to disappoint me." He shook his head, amused. "If you desire entertainment, I could suggest someone a tad more decent than this dirt."

 _Dirt_. Not Muggle-born, not a Muggle but dirt. Hayden told herself that she didn't mind that— the idea that he thought of her as something entirely else. He was a miserable child, and he made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with Muggles. There was nothing she could say to change his mind. She has no power over him, no advantage, nothing to even out the playing field.

Except she did.

But if she says it out loud, she'd be losing more than what she might gain.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Ron said impatiently. "If you wanted Harry, it would save us all a lot of time if you just get right down to seducing him."

"Shouldn't you be out there on the streets selling the Daily Prophet, Weaselbee?" Malfoy spat. "After all, you'll need all the spare change you can get, else your parents will go hungry for a month paying for your dilapidated things."

Hayden blew out a harsh laugh before she could stop herself. A bitter smile forming on her lips.

"Amused, are you?"

"Terribly," she sneered. Hermione put a hand on her arm, but she shook her off as she stepped forward. "You know, it's people like you I pity the most. You're just as pathetic as the rest of your family, whoring yourselves to Voldemort. And for what? A little lick of power?"

Faster than she could sense, Malfoy thrust his wand at her throat and snarled, low and threatening.

"Do it," she dared him, her smile growing lazy, taunting.

Malfoy looked more interested in hexing her now than pestering Harry, but he held the line he'd drawn. He let out a breathy laugh that raked claws down her spine. "Why should I give you what you want, mudblood?" he purred.

"Lower your wand, Draco."

At that, they jerked away from each other. Hayden bumped into Harry and he held her steady, squeezing her arms in reassurance. That did nothing to calm her nerves. For there, Lucius Malfoy stood. She'd never met him before but he looked exactly just as she'd imagined, with his fine, pressed clothing and stark blonde hair.

And a sneer to match his son's.

"Sorry, father," Malfoy muttered.

His father looked over their quartet, utterly unimpressed. Hayden bit her tongue as he turned a curious expression on her. If the rumors were true, if he really was a Death Eater, then he probably knew Halton.

"And who are you?" he asked her.

"That," Malfoy answered before she could open her mouth, "is nothing. Just mudblood rubbish."

Lucius Malfoy's dark eyes flicked to his son, who straightened almost immediately. She could've sworn there was approval in his face, but he kept all the appearance of absolute indifference. "Ah," he merely said.

Malfoy gave her a look of such condescension that it made her face burn. His mouth curled into a smirk.

"Well, let's not waste our time then," said Lucius, grabbing his son, not particularly gently, by the arm, and dragged him out of the shop.

It took all of her willpower not to chase after them and strangle Malfoy with her bare hands. What did he do to deserve it all? Why did she have to hide her identity and stifle her magic while he struts around like he owns the world?

 _Surely, I wouldn't use my magic for evil like Halton,_ she told herself. _And surely, I wouldn't exploit my name for the sake of my own amusement like Draco Malfoy._

"Bloody hell," Ron breathed. "What a nightmare, those two are." Harry, Hermione, and Hayden grunted in agreement. "No, you know what? I'm having a premonition. This year's going to be fun."

Hermione scoffed, her attention already shifting to a book. "Tortuous is more like it."  
  
  
  


 _Nothing_.

The word haunted Hayden all the way to Hogwarts— kept her from enjoying the massive feast in the Great Hall, even though she was so famished she could have eaten everything. _That is nothing._

She glared down at her plate, each stab of her fork alternating between iron-willed control and growing temper. Stab. _Draco Malfoy_.

Stab. _He didn't even make it to their Quidditch team, and he had the nerve to insult me?_

Stab. _I am a Blackwood. I may not be a proper Blackwood, but I have Halton's blood running through my veins. I have magic running through my veins._

Stab. _Bastard. Stupid, annoying, self-centered bastard._

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Beside her, Hermione poked at her peach tart with as much murderous intent as Hayden has. Which was delightful, because at least one other person wasn't also having the best day. "So much for Ron's premonition," grumbled Hermione. "What good is a brain if they're not going to use it?"

Hayden almost told her that you don't need a brain if you have magic. Logic almost seemed pointless here, but then she realised that wasn't true at all. Thank Merlin Hermione joined their group, she thought. They were the perfect configuration of friends, only because they have Granger's brain to balance out their idiocy.

"It _was_ weird, wasn't it?" she asked her. "I didn't think the platform barrier could close like that."

At that moment, regrettably, she shifted her gaze and met Malfoy's. Hayden braced herself for a sneer, but he just quirked an eyebrow up, as though he was expecting _her_ to sneer.

Her grip on the fork tightened. Disgusting. He was absolutely disgusting for even thinking he was better than anyone just because they have a mixed parentage that was no fault of theirs. He wanted her out of his world, she knew that. No matter how well she does her spells, no matter how perfect she brewed her potions, he will not see past her Muggle blood.

He was still looking when she stabbed another pastry.

"Stop staring at him," Hermione scowled. "Stop _thinking_ of him. You ought to stop provoking him like that!"

"He looked at me first!" she retorted nonsensically.

"So? That doesn't mean you should look back!" Hermione fixed her with a menacing look. "Seriously, Hayden, talking back to him— that's just pointless. Now he's got his attention on you and you've bought yourself nothing but worse problems. You're better off being scared."

At first, Hayden stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then, she frowned. Avoiding Draco Malfoy's cruelness was impossible. That ship has sailed long before their encounter in the bookstore. And while talking to him was indeed pointless, why in the hell would she be scared of him?

In truth, he should be scared of _her_.

Suddenly, she's reminded of this one love story. Or was it a horror story? She was never quite sure.

It goes like this.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who was beautiful, free-spirited, and brave. And perhaps it was exactly because of her beauty, freedom, and bravery that made her insatiable.

She was clever, too, I was told, but I didn't think so. Because if she was, then she should've known better than to fall in love with a man who carried the scent of danger and trouble and wickedness, nothing she could ever hope to handle. He courted her in the most unconventional ways, gave her roots that screeched instead of roses, spoke of curses instead of poems, took her flying over the moon instead of picnics. She craved his danger and he was enraptured by her bravery. And if he made her parents wary and her friends concerned, that only made her want him more. _Love_ him more.

If she had reservations, she buried them or perhaps blinded herself against them. Everything was perfect, and she couldn't imagine it being otherwise.

And so she married him and carried his child without asking what the cost was because she was brave. Too brave, as it turned out.

Hayden looked back toward where Malfoy was, and Pansy Parkinson was giggling over something he had said. She looked at him, and felt no fear.

Perhaps Hermione was right. Perhaps she was better off being scared.

It was important, after all, that she learned the lessons her mother didn't.


	5. two

**_Chapter Two_ **

When Hayden woke to a loud knocking, she hadn't been dreaming about the philosopher's stone. Or the images she saw upon the Mirror of Erised. Or anything about that day like she usually did.

No, the face that haunted her tonight wasn't of the Dark Lord's. It was the face of someone much worse, much unpleasant. Much haunting.

Draco Malfoy's.

With her head throbbing, Hayden stared at the ceiling, a sense of unreality seeping out of her stiff muscles. Merlin, her mind was aching. That stupid dream— memory.

Professor Snape had made her clean the potions classroom once. For detention. For defending Harry. For telling him that he should probably wash his hair. She said a lot of stupid things, but he said a lot of stupid things, too.

It was very early in the morning, the sun barely peeking out the horizon when Draco Malfoy stumbled into the dungeon. Hayden was in the middle of organising the cauldrons and he startled, dropping the glass beaker he was holding. For a moment, they just stood there silently and stared at each other.

She guessed he didn't have his wand then, because he picked up a rag and started cleaning the broken shards. "Good that you're not in Slytherin," were the first words he'd said to her since they arrived at Hogwarts.

"Glad I'm not," Hayden countered, then felt foolish. Talking to him will only lead to trouble, though when she saw the grin he failed to hide, she felt daring instead.

They didn't speak anymore after that. He rummaged through the supply cupboards, collecting some herbs, while she wrote the brewing instructions of a Hair-Raising potion on the board. She wanted to ask him what he was doing— and if that was allowed— but a lingering shred of pride kept her mouth shut.

His footsteps were silent, every movement smooth and calculated, that she hadn't even noticed him leaving until she heard the door creak. "You made it to the team," said Malfoy with his back to her, voice low, not at all sounding like he was asking a question. " _When_ you make a fool out of yourself, remember that it's not the broom's fault."

She didn't like to admit it, but Hayden thinks it was because of that moment that had her training in earnest. Malfoy tries his best to devalue her, and she tries her best to prove him wrong. Hayden doesn't think he realises that. That the more he tries to make her weak, the stronger she becomes.

Of course, that didn't mean it doesn't sting.

"Wake up!" Oliver Wood yelled with another, more aggressive, round of rapping. "Quidditch practice, now!"

There was a time when she would've shot up immediately, thrilled at the thought of playing Quidditch. After all, Hayden _is_ the youngest Gryffindor Chaser in a long, long time. But it was too early, and she was too sleepy.

"I'm up," she croaked unconvincingly, rubbing her eyes with her palms.

"Be there in fifteen or I'll double your drills," Oliver shouted back.

With a groan, she untangled herself from the sheets like a troll waking up from hibernation. Hermione was still asleep, arms clutched around a book titled _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century._ Her fingers fumbled with a quill as she scribbled a note explaining where she'd gone. Then she shuffled across the room, to her trunk, and fished out her Quidditch robes.

Creaking down to the common room, Hayden convinced herself that it'd do her good to do something physical again. The lectures were interesting enough, she supposed, but she can't help having an attention span of a billywig.

Harry was dozing off on the couch, head tilted back and lips slightly parted. Hayden nudged his leg with her knee to wake him, and he mumbled something that she assumed meant good morning.

For the rest of their walk to the Quidditch field, Hayden looked out at the sky and watched the drifting of the clouds.

Her sense of day's shape sat oddly here in Hogwarts. There was _so_ much to do that falling asleep felt like a crime. In the Muggle world, she would just wake up, go to school, and then sleep... probably because she had no friends to play Muggle games with. Not even for a ruleless game of football or pretend family.

Her neighbor's only child, Nymphadora Tonks, was much older than her. And though she was kind enough to invite her over whenever she came home from Hogwarts, it wasn't the same.

Maybe that was why she fell in love with Quidditch so quickly. She'd been deprived of fun and companionship; the sport offered both— and a whole lot more. Like being able to fly.

"Are you planning on joining Hermione at the library later?"

Hayden glanced at Harry and thought the flops of black hair that fell across his brow looked adorable. "Gods, no." She snorted, then adjusted her grip on her Nimbus Two Thousand so it wouldn't drag on the floor. "I don't know how she does it so _willingly_. We haven't even got homework yet!"

Harry laughed, the sound bouncing off the empty corridor. "So what d'you want to do, then?" he asked. "I'll give you options: you can play chess with Ron and lose, play more Quidditch with me and _possibly_ snag a win, hang out with the both of us in the common room, _or_ , picture this, you and me 'round the Black Lake eating cake."

"Mmh." Hayden was glad for the dark, so that her blush might be even a little unnoticeable. "A lot of tempting choices. I'd say chess with Ronald sounds good, but that last one might just do if the cake's slathered with salted caramel."

"Hayden, I'd give you salted caramel topped with bits of bread if that's what it takes."

She didn't doubt that. "The cake's fine. For now."  
  
  
  


Her blood was surging through her veins as she shot up to the sky higher than she would've dared. From up here, she could see the Whomping Willow sway, the Black Lake ripple, the owls fly. The world seemed so peaceful.

 _I could do this forever_ , Hayden thought. _So for one infinite second, I'd feel free._

The Bludger came at her fast, shooting toward her face, and she knocked it away, making a loop in the air. "Are you crazy? I could've fallen!" she screamed at Fred. "Aren't you supposed to keep the Bludger _away_ from me?"

"Aren't you supposed to _chase_?" he yelled back, chuckling. "Besides, I was testing you. You're not so out of practice as I feared."

Hayden gave him a wicked smile, then freefell down to his altitude, all her thoughts blowing off her like fluff from a dandelion.

It felt wonderful.

Fred sped up— a silent challenge for a race— and hollered at George to keep aiming the Bludger toward her. "So what did you do over the summer?"

"Basically nothing," she answered, not wanting to talk about anything Muggle, but not wanting to be obvious about it, either.

The truth was that those two months back in the Muggle world had been bizarre. Everything was too much here, and the wizardkind came to think of danger as something inevitable, a natural thing, like— _oh, burnt your house down, did you? Well, what d'you think of the weather?_

So coming back to Harlow had been difficult, because by then she knew how dull that world was compared to the world of magic. And because, by the time she'd returned, someone had spread a rumor that her mum had sent her to an asylum.

"The Muggle world's tedious," she went on. "All I wanted to do was to get on my broom and fly away."

"What? Aren't Muggle teens supposed to snort powder and sneak into clubs with a fake card?"

That startled a laugh out of her. It sounded ridiculous, but it was true. After all, Muggles need to find a way to amuse themselves _somehow_. "Is that what your father tells you?" Hayden shot a hand up in the air and caught the Quaffle. "What about you? What do the Weasleys do in summer?"

George swooped in beside her, tossing an easy grin in her direction. "Basically everything," he answered. "Come over to the Burrow, and we'll show you how to do summer."

"Can I really?" Her head turned to look at him, and, distracted, she saw the Bludger too late. Hayden swerved to the side, but the ball hit her shoulder. She could've taken it on her stomach if she hadn't moved at the last moment, and as it was, she was sure it was going to bruise.

"Oops," said George, wincing. "My bad."

She waved a hand at him to tell him it's fine, and threw the Quaffle toward the goal post before they could fuss about it. The score pleased her enough not to mind the growing ache on her shoulder. She smiled to herself, thinking today was going to be a good day.

And it turned out, even that was too soon.

As Hayden hurtled around the corner, she saw Oliver stalking toward the Slytherin team. The whole lot of them. She shot down to the ground, landing harder than she'd meant to in her haste.

"What's happening?" she asked Harry, but didn't really need to. Because on the other end of the field stood Draco Malfoy, watching them with smug delight, as though he'd already won the Quidditch cup. He was wearing his usual Slytherin robes, his hair brushed back. His lips curling into that familiar sneer.

"They're taking our training time," Harry said slowly, like he wasn't sure himself. "Malfoy's father has bought the lot of them the new Nimbus Two Thousand and One."

A frown formed on her face. " _What_?" she demanded. Why would he do that? His son isn't even on the team, he— oh. _Oh_. That's when she noticed he wasn't wearing his Slytherin robes at all.

He was wearing a _Quidditch_ robe.

_I'll be the greatest Seeker you'll ever see._

Malfoy made a small bow at her and as he did, it looked unnatural. Like he was a gold cauldron cracking. "Nice of you to come greet your master."

The whole Slytherin team howled with laughter. Malfoy stepped closer toward them and the others backed off, giving him room. It was an improbable sight, seeing as how he was the smallest of the lot.

It took everything in Hayden not to surge forward and punch him. It wasn't as though she thought she could land one, especially not with his team so close behind. They would tackle her down before she could take a step.

Still, she wondered, what would be the punishment for punching a Malfoy? Detention perhaps, such as a Quidditch playing ban or venturing the Forbidden Forest or polishing silver in the trophy room or sorting rotten Flobberworms— or worse, no detention at all. An expulsion.

Lucius Malfoy could certainly make that happen.

"Perhaps you had me confused with Parkinson," Hayden said instead, a stiff smile tugging at her mouth. "I don't answer to bitch boys who have to buy their way into everything."

Malfoy didn't flinch nor did he sneer like she was expecting him to. He actually _yawned_. "Why not? Muggles are such greedy creatures. If they knew of us, they'd probably slit their own throats to end their misery. So why shouldn't you serve me? It'll certainly give your pathetic life _some_ meaning."

Harry stepped toward him, baring his teeth. "She's a witch, not a Muggle, you git," he snarled. "Wipe that slimy, foul smile off your face."

Malfoy kept that slimy, foul smile. "Isn't she? Tell me you're not a Muggle, then. Your parents are both Muggles, what does that make you?"

A crackling charge went through her— a spear of lightning in the endless fall. It was like being back in Harlow again. Like walking through the streets and having strangers tell her that she was better off being dead.

 _Freak_ , those strangers would say, a sneer in their voices. A thing so odd and so ill-fated. A thing so nasty. But she never did let it out— no, because they knew nothing of what truly lurked under her skin and raked claws down her insides.

Today, though, Hayden couldn't seem to choke down her nastiness.

"Answer me," Malfoy taunted, "what does that make you, you filthy mud—"

"It makes me your worst nightmare," she said before he could finish. And then, she attacked. " _Expelliarmus_!"

Malfoy staggered backward, completely taken off guard. Hayden fired another line of scarlet flame and he dodged it, sidestepping the spell. Barely. But then soon enough, he found his footing and his skills finally showed.

One flick of his wand and she was sent tumbling, twisting to catch herself, but not fast enough to avoid tripping over a discarded broom on the ground. She accidentally bit her tongue and tasted metal.

"Let's give it to Gryffindor," Malfoy announced, his voice carrying, "where dwell the brave and stupid at heart."

His team laughed again as Hayden spat blood on the ground. Malfoy smirked, thoroughly enjoying the hatred emanating from her.

It was enough to set her off, to hex or punch or slap or strangle him, she didn't know. She dodged his first spell, but when she dove left, he sent another one so swiftly that despite her speed, it caught her. The thud echoed through the field as Hayden landed knees-first on the stone pavement.

She was losing, no matter how she tried to play it off. Malfoy knew more spells, and she had no idea just how skilled he was. His eyes narrowed, watching her, waiting for her to yield so he can start gloating to his heart's content.

"Is _this_ all you have, Blackwood?" Malfoy laughed triumphantly. "A whole lot of temper and a little bit of party tricks?"

 _Stand_ , Hayden told herself. _It doesn't matter if you fall. Just. Stand._

"You're already on your knees. All you have to do now is grovel before me. Beg and make it pretty," he said, "or I will hurt you until there is nothing left to hurt."

"Go ahead," she spat. "Because anything less than that won't make me surrender to you."

And so, her bones trembling and her mouth bleeding, she stood.

"Hayden, don't—"

"Oh shut the hell up, you tiresome little mudblood," Malfoy scowled at Hermione, waving her off with one hand. "This has nothing to do with you."

Hayden spared her a quick glance and Hermione was shaking her head at her. She was clearly horrified by her behaviour. She should be. Her behaviour was horrifying.

Malfoy went on, crooning. "Isn't that right, Blackwood?" He leaned toward her, close enough for a kiss. Close enough that she could see the magic crackle in his eyes, bright as stars. Lethal, dangerous. Wholly breathtaking. She hated them. "Now, show them what you truly are. Show them how soiled and rotten you are beneath that Muggle skin. Let's see what your Potter thinks about you then."

Hayden knew better than to listen. But there was such a fire in her blood that she could no longer see right, think right, breathe right. So she damned the consequences to hell and shot another flare of magic. Again and again and again.

She came in with a series of spells Hermione had told her about but never really remembered what they were for. Their magic slammed together, reverberating like lightning. They duelled across the field, completely unconcerned about their audience. Sweat started on her neck and her breath came in quick.

It felt good to finally fight someone other than herself.

Hayden feigned to the left, dropped to her knees, and landed a slice to his skin. It wasn't a very fair move, but she wasn't sorted in Hufflepuff for a reason. It took them a moment to realise what happened, but when they did, it surprised them both when a line of red slipped down his fingers and dripped to the ground.

Both teams went eerily silent as Malfoy slowly held his hand up. The sight looked ridiculous enough that it pulled a laugh out of Hayden's chest, a cruel, wretched sound even to her ears. She did so much. She did _so_ much, he did so little, and all he got was a hairline of a cut.

All the same, Hayden felt glorious. Stupidly, achingly glorious.

"No matter what you do," he said distractedly, frowning at the blood running down his arm, "you are nothing. You barely exist at all. Remember that."

He's right. She was nothing.

She _is_ nothing.

She barely exists at all.

But when Hayden looked down and saw the splatter of blood, she couldn't know which was his and which was hers. There was no difference at all.

A smile started on her face.

"Someday," Hayden said softly, unable to keep her eyes off the flinty red stain on the ground, " _you_ will grovel before me like you've never grovelled in your life, Draco Malfoy." Then her gaze cut to him. "Remember _that_."

Malfoy gaped at her as though he was noticing her for the first time in a different light. As though no one has ever spoken to him like this before.

Perhaps no one has. Perhaps that needs to change.

"I'd like to see you try."

When Hayden lifted her wand again, sparks sputtered out of its end, magic ready to burst out at her command. Though this time, the sparks weren't scarlet. They were black.

And as Malfoy lifted his, a sharp gasp split the air between them.

Both the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams spun around. And there, in her emerald cloak rippling in the morning breeze, stood Professor McGonagall, her face impossibly furious.

"Blackwood. Malfoy. Detention."


	6. three

_**Chapter Three** _

Hermione glanced at Hayden's bruises, then dug her quill hard enough on the parchment that it ripped. There was no doubt she was envisioning someone's skin instead. Hayden's, from the looks of it.

Merlin knew how many times she'd told her most of it were from the Quidditch training, but Harry looked at her like Hermione was looking at her essay now. If they were that put off by her outburst, she couldn't imagine how upset they'd be if they knew half of what goes on in her mind.

But she hadn't completely lost control, Hayden reminded herself as she dipped her quill in the inkpot, then wrote _The witch burning in the fourteenth century was completely pointless because... Snap._ Hermione broke her quill in half and Ron handed her his. Harry watched Hayden scribble a few more nonsensical words as he flipped a page of his book, and she pretended not to notice.

She kept telling herself that she would've won that duel if only Professor McGonagall arrived a bit later. She'd been ready to unleash real hell upon Malfoy then. Now, she felt stupid whenever she looked at him. If they won't support her, the least they could do was pretend that nothing happened. Hayden might accept that, even. But she will not apologise for defending herself.

Those spoiled Slytherin brats from pureblood families were overfond of telling her how _fortunate_ she was, a Muggle-born without a drop of wizard blood, to be given a spot here, in Hogwarts. A huge honor, of which she will never be worthy. Of course, they were wrong. But she will never reveal her secret— not to those idiots, anyway.

"If you'd just ignored him, you wouldn't have to be doing that right now," muttered Harry into the silence, "and you wouldn't have to suffer four detentions with him."

"What was I supposed to do?" Hayden asked exasperatedly, tiring of their passive-aggressiveness. "You can't really expect me to just stand there while he humiliates me."

Hermione stabbed at the unfortunate parchment with singular focus. "That's exactly what you should've done," she scolded. "That wasn't like you at all. You don't just— _attack_ people like that!"

"Appeasing Malfoy won't help," she hissed. "The more he gets away with, the more he believes he's entitled to have."

"So, what then? You want to teach him— manners?" Harry laughed sharply. "Even if someone should do it, that someone doesn't have to be you. What he says or what he doesn't say doesn't matter to us, so it shouldn't matter to you. You could've been expelled."

Annoyed, she propped her chin on her hand and huffed. Harry might have got a lot of advice to give, but she was sure as hell he wasn't taking all of it. Hayden couldn't count the number of times he'd fought Malfoy. "So what _do_ you want me to do?"

"Ignore him," said Harry. "There's no winning against him, no matter how brave or talented or strong you are. I don't want you to get hurt."

If he spat on her face, it couldn't have offended her more. Though he seemed repentant enough to say that, it was clear he wasn't about to take it back.

They had never understood it— how strong her hatred and anger was. So strong that sometimes she almost get drunk on the intensity of it. And she hadn't minded. Until now.

"Listen," Hayden breathed, hating the desperation in her voice. "Every day that we stand up against him is a day we win. He can throw crap at me, but every time he does and I don't back down, he loses. After all, he's giving everything he's got to me— and I've got absolutely nothing to lose. He's bound to take himself down."

She glanced at Hermione in time to see her frown at her, as she often did when she says something that was at odds with the girl she pretended to be. "Where is this coming from, Hayden? Malfoy is a sick bastard. It's dreadful, but we can't do anything about that now, can we? Certainly not you."

 _This is not about Malfoy_ , she wanted to yell at her. _This is about me. I am tired of being powerless._

"Hades," Ron said, saying her name slowly, as though she was a provoked creature needing to be soothed, "it's not worth it. The miserable git's not worth it, okay? He's like that now because he's bored and immature. Isn't that bad enough? What will you do if he starts hurting you for real?"

"I will hurt him back," were the words Hayden needed to say to soothe her pride and lose her friends. But she wasn't sure if she could risk losing this... tendril of _hope_. They'd introduced her to emotions she never even knew existed that sometimes she was _afraid_ to feel them, as though acknowledging it would somehow cause them to disappear.

Perhaps they would never understand, perhaps some things would never be enough, but right now, everything that matter's right where she needed them to be. If she doesn't move, nothing will go wrong. So as Hayden took in their reproving expressions, it was with bitterness in her throat that she said, "I'm sorry, you're right. I was just pissed. I'll ignore him."  
  
  
  


Hayden could barely keep her eyes open. She didn't know how long the detention was supposed to last, only that they needed to clean every spot in the Transfiguration classroom.

After dinner, she felt as sleepy as if she'd drank a dozen Sleeping draughts. It was the adrenaline draining away, she was sure, the emotions dissipating. Hayden tried to remind herself that she wasn't safe, that she was locked in a room with a psychopath who, in addition to being a _psychopath_ , hated her, but her mind didn't seem to have any more fight in it.

She blinked a few times, trying to stay awake.

"You're awfully tame today," Malfoy started from where he was already dusting the Transfigured items— Dusting was a generous way to describe what he was doing, as he had accomplished absolutely nothing so far. Hayden was certain he was collecting _more_ dust than cleaning them off. "You're not nearly as docile as you were this morning."

Hayden said nothing as she began to polish the next set of teapots, her fingers getting increasingly sticky from the wax. Malfoy was still staring, so as flatly as she could, she said, "I'm done with your games."

Malfoy caught the unspoken meaning in her words— _I'm not going to fight back, so go amuse yourself somewhere else_ — and gave her a scoff. She heard, more than saw, him practically prancing toward her, tossing the feather duster around— again, spreading more dust— and then sat upon her desk, rattling the teapots.

Amusement danced in those silver, almost translucent, eyes. "Back to being good and dutiful, I see _._ Was it Potter who admonished you this time? Or was it Granger?" Hayden's nose twitched in irritation. " _Both?"_ He laughed."I'd sooner chuck myself off the Gryffindor tower."

"Be my guest," she snapped, then bit her tongue, her friends' warnings ringing in her mind.

Malfoy bared his teeth in a wicked grin. If she didn't know better, she'd say it almost looked a bit self-mocking. Hayden braced herself for another quip, an insult, a brag— for anything. But none came. Good. Her attention went back to the teapots and continued scrubbing.

Silence fell, taut as the Elder wand. It doesn't bother her, though— in truth, she welcomed it. She'd sometimes spend days, _weeks_ in the Muggle world without speaking to anyone. It wasn't until she'd come to Hogwarts that she found friends, and found that she actually _liked_ talking.

Yet now, with Malfoy... well, she knew for a fact that he didn't like silence. She believes he liked the _opposite_ of silence, because not long after she'd finish another set of pots, he poked her with the feather duster. "Tell me what's so great about Potter," he said quietly, but not gently.

Hayden looked at him incredulously, but when he didn't say more, she couldn't help but speak. "You can't be serious."

He gave her a look she interpreted to mean, _I most certainly am._

"Harry's—" A lot of things. "He's... why do you care?"

She saw a muscle jumped in his jaw before he said, "Because I don't get the fuss. Is it the wonder of the _boy who lived_? Does that offer so much excitement? Satisfies an unfulfilled desire for adventure, perhaps?" He looked at her flatly. "Or is it simply because you find those sad green eyes so irresistible?"

Her cheeks warmed, although there shouldn't be a reason to. "He's my friend."

"Do you wish it were otherwise?" He smiled roguishly, as though they were two friends sharing secrets.

It annoyed her enough to snap. "Yes, I wish to kiss him, ask him to hold me all night, and have him whisper sweet nothings in my ear." Hayden inched up her chair and came closer to him. She didn't give herself time to ponder over why her heart jumped a beat. "Would you like to spell us some refreshments and delve into my nightly fantasies?"

Malfoy hummed, still grinning. "I think I'm starting to figure you out." When she didn't prompt him, he continued, "Do you know why you keep a leash on yourself?"

"I'm sure you're about to enlighten me," Hayden said, giving him a little smile, her best attempt at an eager, reverent expression. Let him run his mouth for all she cared. He certainly enjoys the sound of his voice well enough.

"Perhaps you tell yourself that you don't care about what other people think of you, that they're not worth your time. But in truth, you care too much. Potter and his circle of cretins look at you, and think that you're this perfect, virtuous Gryffindor."

For a second, Hayden thought she might almost accept that as a compliment.

"None of them see you for what you truly are." A slow, delighted smile spread across his mouth. "You're _awful_. And the best part is you know it."

" _I'm_ awful?" She shook her head, though, for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to deny it. "I'm not going to debate moral standards with a monster. Certainly not one who doesn't have any friends at all."

He looked her over from head to toe, considering her as though she was an equation. "When you walk down the hallway and you chance upon your _friends_ , what do you see in their eyes?"

Hayden gave him a tight smile. "Why don't you just get to the point?"

Malfoy scrunched his nose and rolled his eyes. "I have no friends, and yet I see many things. For instance, Weasley looks at me with envy. Your Potter looks at me with wrath. And Granger—" His smile turned mirthless. " _Fear_. That one used to be my favorite, actually. Until I saw yours..." Hayden waved a hand in the air to prod him, annoyed at his dramatics. "Desire."

 _"Desire_? For _you_?" She choked on a laugh. "Now I know for sure you're addlepated. You see what you want to see."

Malfoy shrugged. "Not desire for me, perhaps. But desire in what I have." His eyes flickered— with what emotion, she couldn't tell. "You looked upon the Mirror of Erised, did you not? Tell me what you saw."

She schooled her face into neutrality, disinterested, even as her heart thumped. How he'd found out about that, she had no idea. "Like hell I'll tell you."

"Never mind, then. You've already said what I want to know: you saw _something."_ He paused, then looked at the ring he always wore. "I saw nothing but my reflection."

"Good to know," Hayden said with as much sarcasm she could muster, "but I'm already well aware that your head's too far up your arse to want anything else."

"Friends don't matter if you have power." He smirked. "But you already know that and I don't blame you for denying it, for who can confess to such a desire?"

That unnerved her, how not wrong he was.

Before Harry and Ron and Hermione, all she wanted was to grow strong enough to hurt the people who hurt her. Starting with Halton. She was prepared to face it— seven years of loneliness in a strange world just to satisfy that _need_ to hurt.

But then, so much has happened and she started to want other things, too. With that thing in mind, Hayden said, "I do not have more care to spare you. I have no _desire_ to live a sad and miserable life such as yours. Leave me alone."

Malfoy's laugh was low and mocking. "You already have a sad and miserable life," he said. "You're a mudblood, a worthless and spineless mudblood. Dirt like you make me understand the Dark Lord and Halton's actions, really. They should've wiped off your mum and—"

Hayden stopped hearing him.

Dead air rushed in her ears, and her head gave a throb— a rush of pain, and then... a hot flash of fire, pushing its way in. She shoved back. Took her rising panic and used it like a Beater's bat to shove it down, down.

"Look at you," she thinks he was saying, "you don't even know what to do with yourself. Getting rid of mudbloods is the only mercy the Dark Lord could ever offer your pathetic lives. This will never be your world."

Hayden wondered if Halton said that to her mother when he left. She wondered if he said that to her.

"Why?" She kept her breathing steady and shallow, throwing all her focus into that. If she could keep breathing, she wouldn't break apart. "Why do you do this to me?"

He looked at her as though she'd just asked him a dumb question. "Because I can."

_There's no winning against him, no matter how brave or talented or strong you are._

Malfoy's eyes fixed on her hands suddenly, and his breath caught, harsh enough that she trailed his gaze. Black fire was curling, sputtering out of her fingers—

 _Oh god. Stop stop stop sto_ p—

It did. It vanished, sucked out into nothing, snuffed out like a candle.

Malfoy's gaze slid to Hayden's face, then down to her hands again. "What the _fuck_ was that?" he asked, his voice laced with barely concealed panic. "You use Dark magic?"

She shook her head quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Malfoy stepped closer to her, and there was no fear in his face, no doubt, as he said, almost reverently, "Show me. Show me again."

What did he care? Hayden curled her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her make a spectacle. The things he'd said...

Wordlessly, she picked up the cloth and started polishing again. Hayden thought about how much she hates Halton, how much she hates Harlow, how much she hates Malfoy, and how much she hates herself. And then she doesn't think about anything but shining the sodding teapots, one swipe after another, ignoring the soft hooting of the owls, the soreness of her muscles from Quidditch, the wand poking at her ribs, and all the magic in this world that wasn't hers and might never be.

"A mudblood and a freak," Malfoy sneered. "You would probably have been more useful to the world if you'd never been born."

At that, Hayden looked him in the eye and said, "I know." And meant it.   
  
  
  


"You weren't joking about the cake, huh," Hayden said, licking the salted caramel off her fingers.

Harry said he'd wait for her to finish detention, but she was still surprised when she saw him sitting in front of the fireplace, skimming through a Quidditch book, a box of cake beside him.

He raised an eyebrow. "I never joke about serious matters, especially if it involves confections." She kicked him on the shoulder with a sock-covered foot and laughed when he grabbed it and wouldn't let go. "Besides, you earned it."

It was her turn to raise brows. "For cutting Draco Malfoy or for tolerating him in detention?" Harry's eyes narrowed, and she gave him a pout. "T'was a joke."

"If Professor McGonagall didn't stop—"

"I would've been fine," Hayden interrupted him, dropping her plate on the ground as she sat up. After a long day, the last thing she wanted to hear was another lecture. "You don't need to worry about me, Harry."

He brushed his fingers through her hair, then grazed them along her cheek, effectively shutting her up. "When you lose control like that," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire, "I have no idea what you're going to do. I don't know if you're hurt or scared." Hayden began to shake her head, but he continued, "I have two kinds of nightmares: the ones where we didn't survive him... and the ones where I see you walking toward his fire again. I will _always_ worry about you."

She looked up, suddenly, too surprised to hide it. Since they pretended that incident away, she never did have the chance to tell him that she was the one who conjured up the flames and, well— she thought he already knew.

Another dangerous secret to hide, another lie she had to tell.

"You ought not to worry, Harry. We kicked Voldemort's arse good enough, after all." Harry shot her a dry look, but she smiled. "I'll be careful. I promise."

She didn't have time to brace herself as he pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her. There were still so many things she couldn't tell him, yet no matter what happened tomorrow, or the next week, or the next month, she was grateful. Grateful to Merlin, to all the gods above and below, and to fate itself that she met Harry that day in Diagon Alley. Grateful for these little moments of reprieve.

Grateful, even, to Voldemort because though they'd never talked about what happened that night, something _had_ shifted between them, irrevocably. They've become more aware of each other, more connected.

Silently, Hayden twined her arms around his waist and surrendered, forgetting about the heat, and the blonde Slytherin, and the room around them. The strangers in Harlow and Azkaban faded into nothing. The world, both Muggle and magic, faded into nothing. She breathed in his scent, and at that moment, there was only her and him.

Harry's nose grazed the curve of her neck, and she shivered. "I'm so glad I met you," he whispered, the words only for her.

Deep down, she knew she didn't deserve any of this. But she swore to herself that, someday, she will face the choice of letting this go. Letting him go.

But for now... for now, she'll let herself be selfish for a little while longer.  
  
  
  


That night, Harry and Hayden talked about anything and everything they could think of. And even as they smothered the fireplace and the night turned to dawn, they laid on the hearth, eating the salted caramel cake straight from the box and from each other's mouths.


	7. hayden

**_Hayden_ **

I've never admitted it, but sometimes I envied Granger. Sometimes, for all her love of rules and order, she seemed entirely carefree with herself. She didn't care about the way she looked, or the way she carried herself. She didn't need to hide anything, didn't need to repress anything— though I did often pray that she would repress her pestiferous attitude.

I don't know if that's what you felt with Harry. You used to say that you hated him because he's got a hero complex, but I think you hate him because he's got it easy. Easier, I mean.

They had no idea how dangerous secrets are. You do, though. You've always known. We're too bound by rules now. Never make a mistake. Never displease him. Never miss your task. Do this, do that. Don't do this, don't go there.

Never tell anyone who you are.

Maybe I should have talked to you about this. Maybe I should have talked to you about a lot of things. But you don't exactly make it easy for me to do that, do you?

Because searching for love at your fingertips, you who made it difficult for me to love in the first place, felt far worse than becoming accustomed to this prison. The silence here is far more comforting than the delusion and deception I kept feeding my mind when we were together.

And with time, my loneliness turned into solitude. The silence turned to peace, the fear turned into a heartbeat, and I began to adore the seconds spent staring at these same empty walls. So much I found myself talking to them.

I told them about Harry before I told them about you.

I told them how I mistook attention for connection, the line blurring between wanting him and simply just wanting someone. One night, while I was sitting against the far wall of my cell and with my fingers deep inside me, it was his eyes that filled my mind instead of yours. I realised I missed his body and what it made me feel, not the person the body belonged to. I missed its smell. I missed its every curve and every plane. I missed its warmth. On my lips, on my neck, on my skin. I missed it above me. I missed it under me. I missed it _inside_ me. I missed it because it held me when I was falling apart.

I am almost broken, and I keep thinking, who's going to hold me now?

The walls answered.

They said, surely not you.


	8. four

**_Chapter Four_ **

When Hayden was seven, she watched her middle school burn down. Watched as thick smoke seeped through cracked windows, as ash fell like snow. The fire engulfed the whole left wing of the building, and she remembered how one fireman ran into it to save Carter Evans. He hadn't flinched, hadn't hesitated as the other firemen before him had done. She remembered how everyone was screaming or crying or whispering prayers, but she stayed silent. Only waited for the brave fireman to come out.

He never did.

Still, Hayden liked to imagine she would be like that: fearless when it mattered most, unrelenting when it came to duty. She often stole bravery from that memory, for the smallest things, like walking up to the cashier, and bigger things, like jumping through a trapdoor and facing the Dark Lord. She stole some now as she glared at Harry, her eyebrows frowning so deeply it hurt. It was hard not to picture him as the fireman who walked through the flames.

"It'll be fine. He can't possibly be dangerous. He's _paper._ "

"Of course." Hayden hit his head with the black notebook. "Let that Tom Riddle trick you into telling him your secrets so he can use them against you."

"What is he going to do, Hayden? Tell everyone we snog in between classes?" Harry grinned at her, a lock of tousled hair falling forward into eyes as green as a meadow. "It'll be fine," he repeated for the millionth time and seized the diary from Hayden, grin fading into seriousness. "Besides, he knows things about the chamber. We can't confront Malfoy without the polyjuice potion and it's taking too long. Right now, Tom's our only option of finding out who the heir is."

The complete untruth. Hayden knew another way of getting information out of Malfoy. A faster, more effective way. "Just give it to Dumbledore. He's quite literally the most powerful wizard; he'll know what to do. No one's asking you to solve this—"

"There's a reason why I'm the only one who can hear _it_ ," Harry cut in, his low voice calm; they might have been discussing homework. "And I'm more than willing to take the brunt of it, if it means it'll keep you— _and_ Hermione— safe."

Hayden opened her mouth to argue, but Harry clapped a hand over her lips.

In a span of two weeks, six students have been petrified. Six students who were either half-blood or Muggle-born.

And she had to be insane— insane or descending to a new level of immorality— if she said that didn't terrify her. Everyone was either pacified by misery or triggered by hysterics, two responses that were completely warranted for those of sound judgment. Any other reaction was a sign of digression or irrationality, and a heresy to the obvious: They were all _fucked_. Royally and utterly fucked.

So Hayden decided she must be the exact antonym of sane, because she found comfort in the cold silence, the night and its shadows.

Besides, if they should fear something, it shouldn't be some monster that comes from a cryptic chamber. No, the real monsters walked among them and they came from privilege.

If she went out to the corridor, she'd probably see a pureblood Slytherin, taunting a _mudblood_. They carried insults in their pockets, egotism propped up on the tips of their tongue; lips curling in condescension, in knowing that they could walk around everywhere without fearing for their lives.

But Hayden had already borne their humiliation for over a year; it couldn't get any worse. At least now, something good finally came out of her detention— an arrangement she'd initially detested but now very, very much welcomed.

Because regardless if Malfoy is or isn't the heir, having a pureblood around her while a monster was out there petrifying Muggle-borns and half-bloods was reassuring. Hayden would gladly let the arrogant bastard fight it off while she runs for safety. And if the thing decides to turn on its master? Wouldn't that be wonderful.

Hayden pinched Harry's arm, and the palm covering her mouth peeled away. "If you end up getting petrified, Potter, I will personally tie your body to a boulder and drop you into the Black Lake."

Why did he always have to _insist_ on playing the hero? She could only imagine what Hermione would say if anything happened to him.

_Why didn't you convince him otherwise? You two run into trouble every chance you get._

Which was completely ridiculous. Harry was the only one who poked around threateningly inauspicious things. Hayden didn't even like to _think_ about said threateningly inauspicious things. But either way, it piled the blame on her shoulders. Everything he did was somehow partly because of her.

An easy grin hit Harry's lips. He brushed his hair back with his fingers, which immediately fell back down again just to spite him. "I don't want to fight," he said, leaning in until his forehead rest against hers. "I want to kiss."

Hayden scowled at the blatant segue, biting back her frustration. There was no use in arguing, in listing the endless reasons why what he was doing was leading him closer to death. She'd just waste more breath. Merlin knew he was just as stubborn as she was.

"Don't write anything in that diary if I'm not with you, do you understand? I don't trust him."

"Mmhmm, sure." Harry drew her closer until his nose was touching her nose. Her eyes fluttered shut, unbidden, her thoughts drifting, carrying with it her ability to speak.

 _Look at you_ , a voice from far away said. _You do not deserve_ _this. You do not deserve_ _him._

It was just weeks ago that she'd felt so sure than she ever had in her whole life. Harry felt right. Kissing him felt right. But while in between kisses he told her about his childhood, his parents, his dreams of becoming an Auror, his sodding _fears_ , Hayden had told him which potions were the most combustible.

Vulnerability, it turned out, was a quality unknown to Hayden. Fighting, attacking people, hurting them— getting beaten up? That was easy enough. Being furious and exchanging curses was like breathing air. But talking about her feelings?

She'd so much rather get petrified.

Although technically Harry hadn't asked her to be his girlfriend nor professed his feelings— whatever they were. But she was certain he liked her, and that she liked him back. She was also certain that both of them never knew the tenderness of a mother's kiss, or the comfort of a father's hug, or the warmth of childhood friendships. That they have been craving contact and affection for so long and found those in each other.

Most of all, she was certain they weren't interested in waiting around. They have years of loneliness to make up for and they want to feel everything.

Hayden grabbed a fistful of his robes and kissed him.

Harry's left hand wasted no time cupping the back of her neck, his right tightening around her waist, pressing her hard against him, tearing down every part of her that she didn't like. As he kissed her, she breathed in time to him, until she felt like her body was only air mixing with his.

This.

This was easier. No words, no lies. No dangers, and no secrets. This was right. This was everything.

It's the kind of kiss that makes her forget the darkness clawing at her insides.

When Harry released her from the kiss, Hayden didn't pull away. She stared at the hollow of his throat, her heart beating a painful rhythm, and fought the absurd urge to laugh. Hayden had never dreamt she would get kissed by anyone, _liked_ by anyone— and now—

"It's crazy," he breathed, "how you've no idea know what you do to me."

"Yeah?"

Harry smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back. She didn't need to think, didn't need to feel anything but what she felt right then. He rested his chin upon the crown of her head.

"Hayden," he whispered onto her hair, making her name sound so wonderful. "Hay- _den_ ," he whispered again—not to call her, but simply as if he enjoyed saying it. "Hayden Blackwood."

At that, her whole body contracted. Suddenly she doesn't feel like the brave, carefree girl who could be anything she wanted to be. She felt like Hayden Blackwood, who thirsted for revenge and had poison in her heart.

_None of them see you for what you truly are._

_You're awful._

"I'd better go," she said, watching his face now. "I have... detention."

Harry groaned and fell backward, pulling a pillow over his head. "That was not at all what I was hoping you'd say."

She laughed, but even then, the sound was hollow. "Later, Potter."  
  
  
  


Hayden walked until she found herself in the Quidditch field, slipping past prefects, collapsing, sighing, onto the grass. Her heart faltered, beating an uneasy stutter at what she'd done.

She'd lied to Harry. Again.

Professors weren't allowed to give out detentions at night. Not with everything going on. And now... well, now they still weren't allowed to go out at night, and yes, she was probably in danger, and yes, there was something terribly rotten about what she did and what she'd been doing, but she didn't even mean to say it. It just came out.

Her secrets had inspired in her an instinct to lie and deflect; it was likely a well-developed muscle now. A knee-jerk reaction to every crisis.

But how could she face him when it was right there? Raw. Written across his face. Harry looked at her like he _knew_ her. And he did. He truly did. Not everything about her was a lie. But the thought of telling anyone, of making it known to Harry, of all people, that the person responsible for his parents' death was her father?

She just couldn't do it.

Maybe it wouldn't matter if Harry didn't know about that part of her. Maybe, for him, she could try. Try to be a better person. Try to forget the anger that had writhed and clawed inside her for as long as she could remember. She could be good— someone deserving of him. Hayden told herself that over and over, but she still had to choke down explanations and excuses.

Biting down a scream, she pushed herself up, rubbed her hands harshly against her robes, and started walking back, frustration rising with each step. There was no more time for hiding. It was time to be brave— if only her head would stop pounding.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hayden caught a figure laying under a tree, unmoving. She halted.

Yesterday, the four of them had gone to the medical wing to visit Colin Creevey. His friends had found him half-buried under a drift of fallen leaves, Madam Pomfrey said; they did not realise until they poked at him that he was petrified. Now, as her breath came quicker and quicker, she swore she could feel his stiff body again, just a hint of it tingling across her fingers.

Her nails dug into her palms. A seventh victim. She didn't want to be the eighth. Eight was an ugly number. Perhaps she could scream and a prefect would come to find her. Or perhaps that would only lead the creature to her. Hayden could run, hide. Yes, that's exactly what she needed to do.

She bit the inside of her cheek and changed direction— toward the unfortunate victim. She couldn't just leave them behind, could she? They could've been someone she knew—

She gasped.

One.

Two.

Three seconds later, and a slow smile bloomed across her face. She laughed, almost shyly.

Well, what do you know? The gods did listen to her. She walked closer, a tiny, involuntary thrill shooting through her. There he was. Hands over his stomach, long legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles.

Draco Malfoy hasn't moved an inch since she saw him.

Hayden stared down at him, fighting the urge to kick his petrified body, laugh at it, when she noticed his robes were neatly folded under his head. The Snitch fluttered next to his hand, his fingers looking as though they've only just let go. His chest gently rising and falling, rising and falling— Hayden clicked her tongue in pure disappointment.

Not petrified. Sleeping. _Unfortunately_.

She sank onto the space beside Malfoy, repressing a shiver as another wind whipped through the field. Glowing lanterns hung above them, but Malfoy's face was masked in shadow. His cheeks and the tip of his nose tinted pink from the cold.

It was weird to see him like this. Like he's not the pompous arse, the insolent twat, the arrogant, sadistic bastard that he was. If she caught him plotting the demise of every Muggle-born in Hogwarts, she'd be more inclined to believe it.

But this— she doesn't know what to do with this.

Hayden doesn't know why she can't stop staring at him. Doesn't know what it was about sleeping that made his face appear so soft and innocent, so peaceful and vulnerable— so, so _vulnerable._

Humming to herself, she picked up his wand then pressed it directly to his throat. "Wake up, you insufferable git."

Malfoy's eyes snapped open. She felt his body tense, though his face remained impressively bored. "Have you had fun tormenting mudbloods today?" she asked pleasantly.

"You're not going to hex me with my wand," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

"True, but I'm not above stabbing you with it."

Malfoy tossed her a look that called her out on her bluff, and right then, a wild part of her wished to shove the wand through his neck, if only to prove him wrong. Another, hollow part wanted to go back to her room and sleep forever. Hayden decided she'd be stupid to let this opportunity pass up.

"Such an endearing girlfriend Potter got himself," he said with sarcasm.

"The point is, Malfoy, I can do it. I _will_ do it, and I'm going to enjoy it. Now, answer my questions and perhaps I'll delay the pleasure of hurting you." She pressed the tip of his wand against his skin so he could feel the bite.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "And what will you do for me in return?" 

Hayden laughed once in disbelief. "Need I remind you that you aren't in any position to make demands?"

"Need I remind _you_ that I'm _always_ in a position to make demands?"

She pressed the wand harder. "Yes, _please,_ remind me." He sucked in a breath, his annoyance joining hers in unholy matrimony.

"Do as you wish," Malfoy sneered. "I don't believe in giving without gain. Only my dead body will give a mudblood anything for free."

She clenched her jaw, blood turning cold in her veins. "What do you want?"

"Is that what you really want to ask?"

"What is the _condition_?"

"Show me again the Dark charm you did," he said. His eyes flicked to her, then away. "I want to know exactly what you're capable of."

Hayden stared at him. Stared and blinked and tripped on words she couldn't find and couldn't speak.

There were many questions she needed answers to, but none of them would be worth the cost of showing him that— _magic_. Dark charm. Whatever it was. If she thought about it long enough, Hayden swore she could still smell the festering scent of Quirrell's skin as the wall of flames devoured him. Still see Harry passing out from the heat as she lost control of it. One wrong move, one wrong _breath_ , and she could've killed him.

Hayden chose her words, her expression, with exacting precision. "Are you the heir?"

If he was surprised by her question, he didn't show. "Believe me, if I was, you'd be dead already."

 _I figured as much._ "What do you know about it?"

"Lots."

She rolled her eyes. Prayed to Merlin to keep her from butchering him right here and now. "Do you have any idea where it might be?" She added, "And we can get this over with quicker if you give me a decent answer."

"I know where it is. The entrance, at least."

"You do?" Hayden's breath shuddered into her.

Malfoy shrugged, a minuscule lift of his shoulders. She stared daggers at him, wanting to yell over his vague responses.

"Tell me."

"I'd like to cash in on our deal now."

Hayden gave him a courteous smile. "Oh? But I never agreed on anything."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Malfoy didn't reply, but she could feel the irritation burning off of him. She wondered how many people ever tricked him. Probably not many. Hayden was half convinced he was about to spring and wrap his hands around her neck.

"Tell me where it is, Malfoy," she demanded. "Other lives might depend on it."

His answering smile was mocking. "Allow me to clarify something. I'd known the chamber's location for weeks, and still, six students have been petrified. If I cared about their lives, surely I would've gone to Dumbledore already."

Hayden felt stupid right then. Felt brave because she felt stupid. Her words wore no parachute as they jumped off her lips. "You disgust me," she said, staring hard into his cold eyes. "I have _no_ respect for you. Every word that comes out of your mouth just proves that Harry will always be better than you."

At that, Malfoy twisted her arm, sending her tumbling over; Hayden landed on her back, and he pinned her against the grass where she just held him. He gripped her face in his cold hand, harsh, holding her eyes in place. "You speak as though his actions are admirable." His voice became lethal, a dagger scraping bone as it thrust through flesh. "As though he's making some selfless, heroic choice. As though he's not doing it for anyone but himself."

"Of course he's not. Unlike you, he has a heart. He _cares_. He—"

"Would you do it?" Malfoy interrupted. "Would you risk your life for people who don't give a fuck about you?"

Hayden opened her mouth to say _yes, yes I would because it's the right thing to do_ , but none of those words came out.

Malfoy leaped on the hesitation. "Would you trade your life to save a bunch of mindless idiots? If you say yes, I will gladly escort you to the chamber right now, so you can fulfill your heroic duty." 

Her heart stilled. For a moment she didn't breathe, and in that second Hayden knew she wasn't doing any of this for the greater good, for the half-bloods and the Muggle-borns, for the sake of being good and brave. She wasn't even doing it for Harry. She was doing this for herself, to prove that she _could_ be good.

And Malfoy saw right through her. "Not such an honorable vision now, is it?" His head dipped low. "Potter is not some example to live by, some hero to imitate. He is not someone to idolise or hold up. Judge me all you like. But I value my life. No person is worth _my_ life. And why is that so terrible? You should be thankful I've taught you this lesson," he added with an air of great magnanimity, "perhaps now you're less stupid."

A seething and bitter kind of temper snaked through Hayden. Because deep down, she knew that although she might indeed be good, she was not capable of _such_ good. Not like Harry's. It was not within her. She doesn't care about strangers.

She _did_ care about Harry.

Hayden looked up. "I can't do it," she said. Malfoy's smile grew but she continued, "The spell you want to see— I can't do it. I don't know how. It's not something I can control."

It was a truth that came from somewhere inside her. A truth she'd tried to ignore. Hayden tried to cast it once, to command it at will— the first night she returned to Harlow. She tugged and yanked and pulled at whatever lay deep inside her, feeling for some thread of power, but got nothing. No flicker of black fire or searing heat.

Confusion crossed Malfoy's face, then it was gone in a blink. He stared down at her. "Pick another thing I can give."

"What else can you possibly offer me?" He spoke stiffly. Scathing. "Are you willing to be my lapdog?"

The condescension felt like pins under her skin. Now Hayden wanted to breach the small gap left between them and commit violence. But then, realization slammed into her like a thousand pounds of common sense. Why was she doing this? Why was she offering things to Malfoy? She shouldn't be giving him _anything_.

"Rot in hell."

"I'm working on it." Malfoy released her face, dropped his hands to the ground on either side of Hayden, and spoke into her ear. "It's simple deductive reasoning, idiot," he whispered. "Potter claims he hears it within the walls. What's inside the walls? Pipes. And where do the pipes connect?"

The answer crashed over her then. The entrance to the Chamber was at the second-floor lavatory— where Harry found the diary. She turned on him, but the movement nestled her nose against his neck. The most intense smell of sandalwood and mint filled her senses at the close proximity. The shock was enough to daze Hayden, and at that moment Malfoy plucked his wand from her hand and raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's so exhausting, really," he said mildly, "to be the only person in this sodding school who has a working brain." She tried to scratch his face but he caught her wrist in time. Then he stood up, with casual grace, brushed himself off, and started walking back.

"I'm still expecting you to hold up your end of the bargain," he called out. "Mudblood."


	9. five

_**Chapter Five** _

No one has ever sent Hayden a letter.

And yet today, she was holding one. She has not yet wrapped her mind around that fact, even when her friends asked her who's it from. Even as she ran a finger over her printed name, as though testing if it was really hers.

It was incredibly childish of her, but there were nights when Hayden dreamt of reading a letter from her parents. Asking her how she was. Wanting to know about her life in Hogwarts. She'd imagined a box full of their letters stowed away under her bed, like a talisman against the dark.

"Maybe it's your mum and dad wishing you luck," Ron said, a slice of pancake frozen halfway to his mouth.

 _Yes, maybe_ , she thought. _Maybe not._

When asked about her childhood, she would always say that there was nothing special about it. That she didn't remember much. But, of course, Hayden remembered. She remembered it all too well.

She remembered how her mother used to cry all throughout the night. Remembered how she cleaned up her mess after she had one of her breakdowns. She remembered the cold, and the loneliness, and the hunger. How it raked at her from the inside, dragged its claws along her skin. She remembered the day the numbness came, the ease that came with a habit.

And yet, she remembered, too, the times her mother woke up, opened, spoke. And when she spoke, it was to tell her stories. Stories she had spun like a thread on a spool. _Once upon a time,_ she will say before sliding into tales of brave little girls and cruel little boys, of hope and of grief, of love and of pain.

Once upon a time— that was how all her stories started.

In truth, Hayden never remembered the stories themselves. She did, however, memorise the way she told them; her voice, her tones, her gestures. Sometimes Hayden wondered if her mother ever told her stories to Halton, or if she had made them just for her.

Either way, Hayden wished she had written them all down.

A dull ache of sadness gnawed at her heart. It was a silly word: _sad_. Childish. Pathetic. But the sadness that came along with her deathless search for something more— for _something_ — weighed the words, made it more meaningful.

Finally, she decided to open the envelope.

**_Dearest Hayden,_ **

**_How are you? Nymphadora mentioned that you have a Quidditch match today. We're so proud of you—_ **

She skipped that paragraph.

**_Forgive me for telling you this now, but your mother is sick. Nothing too serious, though, so don't worry yourself. I've switched out her antidepressants for potions, and she'll be staying with us for a couple of days so I can look after her._ **

**_Word had just reached us about the situation in Hogwarts. You remembered what I told you, don't you? Always keep your secrets safe. If you're ever in trouble, send word immediately. Be careful, Den-den._ **

**_Sincerely,_ **   
**_Andromeda_ **

**_P.S. I'm sure you're busy, but if you have time, your mother will appreciate a letter from you. She misses you._ **

_She misses you_. Hayden read that line twice. Thrice. A thousand times. _She misses you_ — and Hayden understood, and still did not understood at all. She almost could have pretended that it was true, but her mother hadn't spoken to her since she left for Hogwarts, and even then their words were few.

The letter fell away from her fingers as she let out a heavy sigh, then, quietly, heard another person making a similar sound. She turned and surveyed the hall, her gaze connecting with _his_ face.

Malfoy was reading his own letter, his face impossibly paler. Outwardly, he seemed perfectly composed— indifferent, even— but look long enough and you'd notice him fidgeting with the silver band around his right ring finger; too quickly, too tense, to pass off as a mindless gesture.

A smile flickered on Hayden's lips, a surge of satisfaction blooming inside her chest. _Malfoy was nervous_ , she thought.

Suddenly her thoughts were clearer now, her insides warmer. And as she turned to face Harry, Hayden absently added silver to the things she hated. And rings.

"Oooh! So Mr. Malfoy's coming to watch, huh," chirped Pansy Parkinson, peering over Malfoy's letter. She said it with such excitement that no one acknowledged the gravity of those words.

Malfoy shouldn't have been surprised. His father _liked_ humiliating him. Ever since he learned that Potter was going to Hogwarts, ever since Potter became the seeker, ever since Potter had saved the school, his father had kept on reminding him again and again that he was never going to be enough.

So why wouldn't he come now, when it was his first match against the _great_ Harry Potter?

But since it had never bothered him before, Malfoy refused to let it bother him now. Everyone already knew the type of person Lucius Malfoy was, an elite man with an esteemed social status, and to him, keeping that position was far more important than keeping his role as a father. Because at the end of the day, it all came down to power. And to both Lucius and Draco Malfoy, power was _everything_. So despite his humiliation, despite his underestimating, Malfoy understood his actions.

"It's too bad your father came when you're playing against the Gryffin _bores,_ " continued Pansy with a curled lip, her gaze on the mudblood, laughing at whatever Weasley had just said. "A team of paupers and mucks."

"You're just bitter Blackwood's actually good," Pucey chimed in with a taunting grin.

Pansy cut her gaze toward Malfoy, whose expression was still a careful blank. He knew she was expecting him to say something, sneer, or behave as though she was nothing.

 _She is nothing_ , he reminded himself.

Except she bore more secrets than he could ever count. He thought back to his last conversation with her— to her threats and confessions and unsaid secrets. Her voice still played its tune in his mind, a constant melody of everything he despised.

Sometimes it would tangle with his father's words.

_You disgust me. You disappoint me. Harry will always be better than you. Why can't you be as good as Potter? Someday you will grovel before me. Kneel, Draco, and remember your place._

Malfoy tipped back his coffee, drank it to the dregs, his throat itching at the burning sensation, and forced the voices away. He will not lose today.

He will not lose to a mudblood. He will not lose to Potter. He will not lose to anyone.  
  
  
  
Wind gusted down the Quidditch pitch, whipping up the drizzle into a lash. Perched on her Nimbus, Hayden slitted her eyes against the sting and looked up, expecting to see the goalposts, the banners, or at least the silhouette of the castle. But the fog was so thick that the landscape had bled together in her vision.

The winter air was heavy, made heavier still by the rain, the scent of wet earth, and the sheer number of students sitting shoulder to shoulder atop the stands. Truth be told, no one cared a whit about the weather— not when the Slytherins were playing. This was the match everyone was waiting for, and one Hayden swore she'll win.

Damned if she was going to lose because the other team had a _better broom._ Damned if she was going to lose to _him_.

Within the whistle of the wind, she could hear Madam Hooch counting down.

It was time to play Quidditch.

Hayden took off flying against the current. Below her, Pucey skidded, and she beat him to the Quaffle. For one moment she dodged the Bludger, weightless, through the air and darkness; then she maneuvered her broom to the nearest goalpost and scored. In a heartbeat, she had her balance back and was chasing after the ball again.

Another chase, and another. Hayden flew straight through the hail, putting both her mother and the chamber out of her head. She chased and flew, nothing to hold her back but the wind itself, until her breaths became labored.

As the night slowly wore on, the fire that had coursed through her veins diminished to a flicker. Now she was cold, stiff, and tired; her eyes stung from the rain and her thighs, still firm on her broom, were almost completely numb. Oliver Wood shouted something at her, but from ninety feet up, the wind carried his words away.

A couple of feet below the scoreboard displayed their impending failure: eighty points to forty, Slytherin lead.

Her throat tightened in helpless frustration. Without a word, she flitted higher and let her mind whirled through cold calculations. She thought she could score more. She probably still could, with Angelina and Katie's help, because while the Slytherin chasers have superior brooms, they had terrible aim.

But those fools were lucky today, and she was tired. So tired.

If she hadn't been readying herself to dive, she might not have noticed the flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. She looked at the thick fog, at the shadows soaring fast. Heard a loud chorus of thwacks.

Then she realised it was the twins. Suddenly Fred threw himself to the side, dragging Harry along with him. Harry tried to shake free of his grasp, but Fred gripped him tighter. Where they had hovered a moment before a Bludger pelted toward it, but didn't move fast enough to avoid George's club.

Hayden squinted as it wheeled back toward them again, and again, and again. She was about to cry a warning when— it _dodged_ George. Went past him and straight to Harry.

She'd never seen a Bludger move that way before— they should be trying to unseat as many players as possible, but this one moved as though it had a _specific_ target. The thrill of playing turned into a sick expectation as she saw it shoot after Harry once more.

Madam Hooch's whistle rang out and the teams dove for the ground.

"Did you see that?" Fred yelled. "Those slimy, cheating bastards! The Slytherins must've fixed that Bludger— it won't leave Harry alone."

"It's no good," said Oliver, shaking his head. He looked less confident than earlier— more anxious. "I think we might have to forfeit."

"I think not," Hayden blurted, her steps faltering from the numbness of her legs. She can see Madam Hooch walking toward them, and over her shoulder, Malfoy was smirking at them. "What are you talking about? Harry can still catch the Snitch."

George opened and closed his mouth like a carp, then said, " _Or_ we can just report it to Madam Hooch and have a proper match next time."

"So the Slytherins can mock us? Look at them. They'll tell everyone we chickened out."

"Better that than risk Harry's life!"

Hayden blew out a breath through her nose before turning to face their captain. "Oliver—"

"Stop talking, Blackwood," George shouted. "This isn't up for debate."

"No," Harry cut in, his lips pressed into a thin line, "she's right. Listen, with you two flying around me, the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one."

"Don't be thick," Fred spat. "It'll take your head off."

"He can do it," Hayden insisted.

"You're _insane_ ," Angelina said to her, voice sounding too high. She was trying to maintain her composure, but Hayden could hear panic against her words. "Oliver, you can't possibly let Harry deal with that thing on his own. Let's ask for an inquiry."

"We're not losing to them just because of a crazy Bludger!" Hayden said loudly, desperation sawing at her voice.

"Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone."

Right then, Madam Hooch had joined them. "Ready to resume play?" she asked.

Oliver looked at their determined faces and sighed. "All right," he said. "Fred, George, you heard them— leave Harry alone and let him deal with the Bludger on his own."

The twins grumbled something crude, but Hayden simply spun around to face Malfoy. Smiled a tiny smile, tight and satisfied. _I'm not going to let you win today,_ it promised. He stared back with furious eyes, and the match resumed.  
  
  
  


Hayden, Ron, and Hermione laid beside Harry, willfully cramped on the small hospital bed, their legs intertwined underneath the blanket. They were all staring up at the ceiling, laying in silence.

"How does it feel?" Ron asked quietly.

"Like someone removed your bones, and now it's growing inside of you," replied Harry, his voice muffled by a pillow.

Silence stretched further between the four, Harry's words vaguely crawling into Hayden's mind as she disagreeably thought of her behavior earlier. "I'm sorry," she whispered so only Harry could hear, her muscles tensing with guilt.

Hayden knew— _everyone_ knew— that Slytherin was going to win, but she needed it, she so _desperately_ needed to win that if she lost, Hayden was sure she was going to spend the night thinking about unpleasant things.

"What are you sorry for?" Harry whispered back, his black hair falling over his eyes as he turned to her. "Last time I checked, you aren't a Bludger."

Hayden threw Hermione's book toward his midsection; it landed perfectly on his stomach and Harry let out an _oof_. "You're ridiculous."

Harry laughed— the sound filling the bareness of the clinic, vibrating across glass receptacles and painted walls. "It was definitely worth it, seeing Malfoy lose for the first time."

"Did you see him getting yelled at by his father?" Hermione asked them. "I almost felt sorry for him."

Ron shot out a chuckle. "Yeah," he mused, "it was beautiful. He just _stood_ there, while his father went rabid. I would pay to see it again."

Hayden tried to conjure the image in her mind. Malfoy was formidable— in the way he dressed, the way he stood, the way he spoke. His voice consistently sounded arrogant; his features schooled to remain intense, important. But all that dissipates in the presence of his father. Hayden imagined him on a slender tightrope—walking confidently thousands of feet above the ground, yet too afraid to look down. She wondered, for a small, brief moment, what Malfoy was afraid of. _Truly_ afraid of.

"This boy needs to rest," Madam Pomfrey hissed at them, "he's got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! _Now!_ "  
  
  
  


It was hours later— midnight, Hayden guessed— and she was on her way back to Harry from the common room, where she had taken too many shots with the team and Ron.

Hayden thought at least she'd have the night, but the rain hasn't even stopped, the darkness barely settled when another letter came. Her mother had run away. Again. And so she did the only thing she could do— drank herself into a pit of bile and misery and false euphoria.

Her mind toppled as she tripped and dropped the bottle of firewhiskey she was cradling, the only consolation that when she fell, she fell right into the clinic. The bottle shattered with the force, and Hayden stifled the horrible urge to laugh. Not at the humor but the irony of it, the pathetic, depressing ending to her night.

She pressed her forehead to the ground and slipped into a drunken half-conscious state, and felt her mother's hand against her back, heard the faint rise and fall of her voice as she told her a story, combing her hair back with her slender fingers. And despite her current disposition, she knew she was only hallucinating. Her mother was never that tender. Her mother was never _there_.

Yet Hayden lingered, holding fast to the illusion even as it fades, the sound of panicked cursing and harsh grunting disrupting her mother's story, burying it word by word until she forced her head up.

 _Of course_ , he was here. It seemed fitting that they'd ended up at the same place, that— despite the enormity of the castle— they were both _here_ , at the same time, in the same room, breathing the same somber air and smelling the same bitter scent of elixirs.

Malfoy was sitting on a bed on the opposite side of the room, across from Harry's, watching her. His usual, cold demeanor seemed to have disappeared, his shirt was discarded on the floor, his shoulders tense, and the grey of his eyes was dim— _afraid_?

Or perhaps she had just imagined it. Perhaps she wanted to see her reflection on someone else's and had no one else to choose but his.

But then Hayden saw it. His back was _shredded_. Slashed. Cut. Blood ran rivulets down his skin. Malfoy looked down at her and impulsively, drunkenly, she smiled. A sweet, wicked smile, pulled from the darkest part of her core.

Hayden didn't care; she didn't care as much about who did it as she did about unnerving him, about letting him know that _she_ saw it. The sensation was both strange and invigorating.

Something in Malfoy's eyes had changed immediately. He looked more vicious than she'd ever seen him— more vicious than the time he discovered she was a Muggle-born; more vicious than when she and Harry were allowed to play Quidditch a year early; more vicious than when Harry caught the Snitch.

"What," Malfoy said, speaking through his teeth, his breath loud, "are you doing here?"

Hayden stood up, a sense of triumph bubbled in her chest as she noted her ability to move— or at least what she thought was— steadily after drinking her body weight.

"To celebrate with Harry, of course," she said, then pointed to his sleeping figure. "I'll wake him up in five minutes, so you better fix your back faster—" A low growl escaped Malfoy's throat, but she continued. "Oh, unless you want to watch? You're quite obsessed with him. Maybe you can compare sizes."

His blonde eyebrows knitted with rage, irritation. "You're drunk."

"And you might be intelligent after all," Hayden retorted, rolling her eyes, her fingers trailing along the bed frames as she sauntered down the room.

"I will _hurt_ you," he said sharply and marched toward her, not stopping until they were so close their breaths fogged the same bit of air. Neither of them dared to touch the other, though, and Hayden had to fight the urge to close the gap and run her nails along his back, to make _him_ hurt.

"With what?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't see your wand on you."

"With my bare hands," he said, his breath hitching.

It was odd hearing his voice falter, in pain; it sounded different— deeper, huskier. Hayden stood there, almost wishing he'd never stop speaking. She felt like his voice would do a better job of intoxicating her than any firewhiskey in the world.

"Alright," she said. "I give you my permission."

Malfoy stood there, trying to discern the sarcasm in her voice but found none. "You're fucked up, you know that?"

She grinned again. "Not nearly as fucked up as you, thankfully." When he didn't reply, she whispered, "What are you waiting for then, _loser_?"

At that, the expression on Malfoy's face turned so feral she stepped back, or tried to, because this time he did not let her. His hand slid up her neck and into her hair, his fingers tighten, forcing her head back so her gaze would meet his own. There was no kindness in his face, no warmth, no sympathy, only hate and anger and pain.

And that— that, Hayden understood too well.

They stared at each other, Malfoy's hand on her hair, Hayden's face masked with faltering defiance. A whimper escaped her lips—unsure if it was out of pain or something else. Malfoy's other hand circled her waist, pulling her closer to him—leaving no space between them. Nothing but pounding hearts and damp skin, ragged breaths and quiet whimpers.

"Is this what you want?" Malfoy scowled, his tone bitter.

"Is this what _you_ want?" she asked him back.

It was obvious he was holding himself back— his brows twitching as he craned his head, leaning forward to her ear, the same way he had done last time, and whispered, "Yes. Yes, this is what I want. I want you _scared_." There was an awful pleasure in the way he said it. "You are scared, aren't you? I can feel it."

"I am," Hayden breathed. 

Carefully, gently, she brought her hands to his back, feeling the angry cuts that hugged his flesh, feeling the wetness of his blood coating her fingers. Malfoy shivered against her cold touch, grunting at the pain. His grip loosened, but his fingers stayed buried inside the strands of her hair. 

"But not of you. Never of you."


End file.
